


Contact

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Camping, Comfort, Friendship, Gen, POV First Person, Post-Call of the Wild, Prompt Fic, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the tent, on the Quest.  A slightly different take on a beloved trope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wagnetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagnetic/gifts).



> For wagnetic, who long ago inspired this story.
> 
> Originally posted to [fan-flashworks](http://fan-flashworks.livejournal.com) for the prompt "sleepless" (amnesty edition).

“Hey Frase.  You awake?”  
  
I am now, instantly alert at Ray’s whisper.  
  
“Is something wrong, Ray?”  
  
“Nah, I’m good.  Can’t sleep, is all.”  
  
“Are you cold?”  
  
“Nah.  Well, I mean, it’s not the Bahamas out here or anything, but this bag’s pretty toasty.  I’m fine.  I just, um. . .it’s just so big and empty, you know?  All that sky and snow and we’re just like. . .a couple of pebbles or something.”  
  
“It can be overwhelming,” I say carefully, wondering whether he’s regretting coming on this trip, whether we need to turn around and head back to civilization.  
  
“I don’t want to quit,” he says quickly, anticipating my concern; he seems in earnest.  “I’m having a good time.  I just, um.  I just wondered if you’d. . .would you mind. . .okay, this is going to sound weird, but would you mind if I touched you?”  
  
We’re touching already, or as near as makes no difference: only a layer of fabric separates his half of the double sleeping bag from mine.   
  
“All right,” I tell him.  
  
“No funny business,” says Ray, as though he didn’t hear me.  “I mean, that’s not what—I just want to. . .to remember that I’m real.  That _we’re_ real.”  
  
“All right,” I repeat, and unzip the barrier between us.    
  
I understand his sentiment, though I’ve never expressed it quite that way.  I’ve often returned from a long, solitary patrol feeling as though I were the only person on earth.  I’m not feeling that way now, only a few days into our trek, with the press of city life a recent memory, and with Ray’s constant, welcome presence.  But I can imagine that for Ray, who has lived his whole life cheek-by-jowl with a multitude, the contrast could easily be overwhelming.  
  
I can hear him breathing: a little faster than his habitual resting rate, and slightly uneven.  I both hear and feel the rustle as he maneuvers his arms—taking one of his mittens off, I realize a moment later when his bare fingertips nearly poke me in the eye before settling on my cheek.  
  
“Careful.  The cold,” I warn automatically.  
  
“Yeah, right, okay,” he mutters.  Thankfully, he doesn’t sound irritated, though he has snapped at me more than once for ‘nagging’ him about basic procedures, and I’ve been trying to curb my tendency to badger him unnecessarily.  “I won’t let anything important fall off.  Just let me. . .”  
  
I let him; I lie still and wait to see what he will do.  His hand wanders tentatively, as if he’s unsure how to proceed.  He pats my cheek, then squeezes my shoulder.  He fingers the cabling of the sweater I’m wearing over my long johns.  It’s strange, to do nothing and allow this deliberate intrusion.  It’s not unpleasant, however, nothing like being handled by tourists while I’m standing guard, because this is my own, free choice, and Ray is a friend.  
  
He slides his bare hand carefully inside my hat, under my head, so that my skull is cradled in his warm palm while his other, mittened hand presses gently on my forehead, keeping the hat from falling off.  His fingers gently knead the back of my skull, threading through the roots of my hair.  The sensation is surprisingly pleasant.  Soothing.  I find myself relaxing into his touch, which is odd, considering that I was relaxed to begin with.  
  
Ray gives a pleased grunt under his breath, then wriggles around until he manages to tug the sleeping bag over both our heads.  Yes, that will do fine to protect his hands.  It’s a little stuffy in here, but that poses no danger, as the top of the bag is hardly airtight.  I can feel his breath, warm and moist on my face.  His feet and knees knock against mine through the fabric barrier as he keeps squirming, and then there’s the sound of a zipper working unevenly down, and the barrier opens to about waist-level.    
  
That lets him get both his hands on me.  Even through several layers of clothes, I can feel the strength and grace of those familiar hands as they touch me in this unfamiliar way, patting my chest, sides, hips.  Marksman’s hands.  Musician’s hands (though to the best of my knowledge, Ray has never played an instrument).  He’s gotten rid of the other mitten: all ten of his fingers splay individually over my ribs.  I can’t quite feel the heat of them through my layers of clothing, but each fingertip traces a separate pressure-trail along my torso.  
  
Ray’s touch is confident now; he’s found his “groove,” and I think he must be finding the reassurance he sought as well, because his breathing is back to normal.  Noticeably slower and deeper than normal, in fact.  The rhythm lulls me, along with the steady strokes of his hands.  In the dark of our enclosure, my eyes drift shut.   
  
One of Ray’s hands burrows under my sweater, under my shirt, tugs at the buttons of my long johns, and then slips inside to palm my stomach.    
  
Skin on skin!    
  
The sensation is electrifying.  Nothing else feels like living flesh; nothing else feels like human skin, the skin of _another_ human contacting my own.  The breath goes out of me in a rush.  Ray’s hand freezes like a startled hare, then relaxes and begins to stroke the soft, vulnerable skin between my ribs.  
  
Each spot he touches springs to tingling life, as if his warm fingers were spring rain and I, waiting soil.  Bundled against the cold, I haven’t touched another person’s skin in days.  And even in Chicago, contact was usually skin-to-cloth or hand-to-hand, even between Ray and myself, who touch easily and often.  The last time my navel felt the touch of any hand but my own?  I can’t remember.  My body has forgotten this simple, fundamental feeling that now surges up, woken by Ray’s strong, careful hands.  My blood thrums; my skin sings.  I am alight, alive; melting into the soil and reaching up shoots toward the sun and scattering in every direction with the wind.  
  
“You okay?”  Ray’s whisper sounds loud in the stillness of the Arctic night.  His hands pause, one flat against my chest, the other anchoring my shoulder.  “This okay?”  
  
For a moment I have no idea why he’s asking.  Then the sound of my own ragged, gulping breath registers in my ears, and I realize that I’m shaking under Ray’s steady palms.  
  
I try to muster the words to reassure him that I’m not in pain, not gripped by an asthma attack or an epileptic seizure, and that there’s no funny business going on—it isn’t sexual arousal that’s overwhelming me, but something harder to name, though just as fundamental.  But I can’t turn the small, animal noises leaking out of my mouth into intelligible speech—can’t turn them _off_ , either, no more than I can control my trembling.  The best I can do is to grab Ray’s hand through my sweater and sandwich it between my palm and my chest.  _Don’t stop.  Please don’t._  
  
His other hand withdraws from my clothing to find my face.  Fingertips gently explore around my eyes, test for tears, find none.  Palm cups my jaw; thumb strokes my cheekbone.  
  
“Keep going?” he asks.  
  
I manage to nod, and the hand on my chest starts moving in rhythmic circles.  I turn my face to expel a grateful, juddering breath into his palm.  His thumb caresses my cheek again, then his hand slides down to the back of my neck.  He squeezes it, gently massages, while his other hand rests against my breastbone, keeping my stuttering heart in its proper place.    
  
“Yeah, there you are,” he murmurs.  “Right here.”  
  
“Right here,” I echo, reaching for him with both hands.    
  
Between my mittened palms, his ribs expand and contract with each breath that mingles with my own.  I even fancy—though it’s impossible—that I can feel his heart beating in measured counterpoint to mine, which begins to calm in response.    
  
“Here you are,” I tell him, and gathers me into a hug as he answers, “Here we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, this is not slash, but of course, it's easy enough to read that way if those are your goggles.
> 
> Also: Hello, everyone! I keep seeing new-to-me names popping up 'round here on AO3, and I would love to get to know some of you lovely people better. So, I encourage you to drop a comment just to say hello, if you're so inclined!
> 
> (This is not a pathetic ruse to boost my comment rate, honest. :) I'm only in online fandom at all because people talked to me on AO3 and introduced me to comms elsewhere, and this is still the first place I tend to encounter people. It's not really an efficient place to get to know each other, that's not what it's designed for -- but hey, we're all here, so why not? *waves hello*)


End file.
